


Dreamer's Waltz

by OrsFri



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Death of Questionable Permanency, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: There's a ghost. Ivan lives with it. They interact. He grows attached.





	Dreamer's Waltz

1.

Ivan thinks, _I should move out,_ but he also thinks, _I can't afford rent,_ and he mentally runs through the accounts and policies that his parents bought and he is very soon having to be in-charge of.

Moving out is never a good idea when one has to take over the family finances soon, as meagre as they may be.

"Family," he wonders aloud, and tries to keep the tinge of bitterness from his voice. "Family loyalty. Family fucking responsibility. Why do I even care?"

From the ceiling, he hears a noise that sounds like a marble being dropped. Ivan vaguely remembers that the neighbours living in the apartment above his family is currently off on a holiday; he sighs and rolls over on his bed.

"Are you listening?" he continues. "I am staying after all."

Silence. Ivan closes his eyes.

* * *

Ira jokingly dubs it the house ghost, and Pap has dismissed it as mere paranoia and over-active imagination; Mama, meanwhile, doesn't even entertain him. Nevertheless, Ivan has come to terms with it ever since he is fourteen and Natasha comes crying to him in the middle of the night about a freaky shadow of a man standing by her closet for the _third time_ in only three months after they have moved to America.

Ivan deals with it by leaving out miscellany trinkets on the table, or whatever it is that may entertain incorporeal, semi-existing beings, and it doesn't take long before Natasha clambers onto a chair to whisper into his ears about how the man _is following you everywhere now, Vanya, I'm scared._

But the house ghost never does anything except for making doors creak open that few inches or make stationary pens roll off onto the floor - nothing that can't be explained away by drafts, or even simply ignored. So Ivan doesn't care and, if he dare to say, even started getting use to the company, however insubstantial said company is.

* * *

Ivan wakes up shivering and the majority of the blankets bundled on the other side of the bed.

"Stop hogging the sheets you friendless ghost," Ivan groans as he tugs the blanket back. "It's fucking _autumn,_ I need the blanket." Especially since Pap never lets them switch on the heater before winter really kicks in, because _electricity bills are expensive, son._

Yeah, right, so is flu medicine when he inevitably comes down with something, except Mama will tell him to suck it up and deal with it, and he should have bundled up with the scarfs and jumpers and all the knitted clothing that Ira _always_ make when stressed, so he deserved to be sick, really.

Ivan doesn't know how to explain that all his layers always go missing because the house ghost likes to play pranks and hide them in inopportune places like _behind the bedstead._

Now, though; now he has the blanket. Ivan bundles himself up with it, snuggling into the warmth self-satisfactorily until he realises how stupid he will look if anyone walks in, and wriggles out of the blanket-burrito. He washes up and grabs a jacket before padding into the living room; Pap is out on a business trip in Brussels, he remembers, and Mama -

"Mama is at Aunt Tanya's," Natasha mumbles, sleepy-eyed as she trudges out of her shared room with Ira. "She suddenly called about needing an emergency babysitter."

"Aunt Tanya lives two states away."

"Yeah, but you know she still can't speak much English." Natasha yawns. "And it's for tomorrow anyway; Aunt Tanya apparently needs to settle some legal matters."

"Vanya!" Ira interjects before Ivan can reply, her head sticking out from the kitchen door. "I _know_ what you are about to say, and I _know_ it's nothing good; don't be so mean so early in the morning."

"He's not mean," Natasha drones sleepily, swaying towards the kitchen, "he's just tactlessly blunt."

"And judgmental," Ira affirms resignedly, "Vanya, please be nicer."

"I have not even said anything!"

"It's not what you have said," says Ira, "but what we _all_ know you are going to say, and that says a lot. Keep your mouth shut unless you have something good to say, and I'll make breakfast instead of letting you two kill yourselves with expired cereal; I think there are eggs in the fridge."

"Oh great, _food."_ Natasha perks up, and is about to scramble off to the kitchen when she freezes. "Vanya, did you know that behind you -"

"We've been living here for _five years -_ "

"But he's so _creepy."_ Natasha can't quite keep the whine out of her voice. "And he's so _close_ to you: most of them stand to the side to watch." There's a sudden chill that passes through Ivan. "Oh. He's gone now."

_"Natasha."_

"I didn't mean to chase him away!" she sulks, "I can't help it."

"Kids, breakfast," Ira interrupts. "Am I making sunny side-ups, poached eggs, omelettes or scrambled eggs?"

Ivan clears his throat. "Do we have toast?"

"I want soft-boiled eggs," adds Natasha.

"Do you think," Ira begins very slowly, "that I will be offering to cook eggs if there's toast available?"

"Soft-boiled eggs, hungry stomach," Natasha reminds.

"Um," says Ivan.

"What do you want?" Ira continues. "I'm counting to three, or you're making your own breakfast. Three, two -"

"Soft-boiled eggs," pipes Natasha.

"Scrambled eggs!" Ivan decides frantically.

"Great, now wait five minutes." Ira disappears back into the kitchen again. "Help me set the tables."

There is an awkward pause as both of them simply stares. Then Natasha says, "Wow. Ira is such a _mom,"_ and Ivan snorts.

* * *

It is when Ivan is three-quarters done with his breakfast when he realises Natasha has not touched her food at all. He pauses, washing down the taste in his mouth with a mug of lukewarm water before asking, "What's wrong?"

"There's. I." Natasha swallows uneasily. "Your good friend is here."

Ira sighs. "Natasha, we  _told_ you -"

"No, you don't get it." Natasha's eyes dart frantically from the table to Ivan. "He's crouching on top of the dining table."

Ivan blinks. "What?"

"He's in the very middle, he - he's smiling at me? I don't know about you but I am ridiculously freaked out."

"Natasha," Ira begins slowly, "why not you grab your plate and come sit next to me?"

"I - yes." Natasha moves with big but slow and obvious movements, as though she is afraid of spooking a stray cat or dog on the streets. She creeps across the room, sitting down gingerly on the chair that Ira pulls out for her. "He's not moving."

"Finish your breakfast," Ira instructs, keeping an eye across the vacated seat. "Just ignore him."

Ivan supposes the only reason he manages to get along so well with the house ghost's company is because he can't _see_ how creepy the ghost is being. "Well," he begins, "I don't think he means any harm."

"He never does, but that doesn't stop him from being freaky."

Ivan reaches out and grabs the pepper shaker. He brings it to the edge of the table and starts spinning it. The shaker spins more and more vigorously until there is a faint orbit of pepper dust around it, but it doesn't stop spinning. "Perhaps he's just bored."

"That doesn't happen."

"Huh." The pepper shaker suddenly falls over to one side. "Is that intentional?"

"He's gone." Natasha visibly deflates. "He's just gone."

Ivan straightens up the pepper shaker, before tilting his chair back to grab the table cloth.

* * *

Ivan dresses; Ivan goes to work. Ivan smiles politely at Yao, who serves the shift right before him, and stands behind the counter of the local indie bookstore, where he has been working ever since he graduated and found himself at a conundrum as to what he wants to do after.

There are magazines at the walls nearest to the counter; fiction takes up more than half the store, while two shelves are reserved for non-fictions, and then there are cigarettes under the counter. Obviously, those are only for sale to employees and favoured customers; Ivan pockets one and adds the necessary fund into the cashier.

Customers trickle in and out of the place, consisting mostly of young kids wanting to read books too big for them, teenagers that either flock to the magazine stands or huddle over books fawning over covers and discussing authors but never _ever_ buying more than a single paperback, and bored housewives buying Penguin Classics editions of Madame Bovary. He's starting to wonder if one of these housewives will finally take inspiration from the book and run off having affairs - minus the tragic death part at the end, of course - but sadly, these same housewives continue browsing the racks months after months, often looking vaguely amused by the books as their kids marvel over dinosaur or space encyclopedias, but never buying another thing for themselves again - except self-help books about thinking positive, cooking, or parenting, that are probably going to be forgotten in the corner of the shelf, so neglected it is as good as being thrown away.

On a whim, Ivan decides to hang up his coat at the corner of the room, draped sloppily over the post-card spinner rack so that, if he doesn't look properly, it resembles a man's tall figure lurking in the shadows. Several customers startle when they glimpsed it with their peripheral vision, and sure, they give him odd looks, but they don't comment on it. Ivan waits.

When the light starts to fade outside the window, and the clock's hour hand strikes somewhere between five and six, Ivan watches his coat's shadow grows longer and impossibly large, as though it is creeping across the room. It cuts off at the sharp patch where the sun shines directly in, and in that small space between light and shadow, Ivan catches sight of the polished shine of black boots - just for a second, clear and concrete, just before it vanishes.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, and steps out from behind the counter to stand in the light right behind the line. "Hey," he whispers, "G. Want to go out to the park tomorrow? It's the middle of the week, so there won't be much of a crowd."

There is waiting - there is always waiting, when dealing with the immaterial, and then a single gold coin drops at the space where light meet shadow, the glint of orange sunlight on it making the golden coin glow like a sun. Ivan picks it up and pockets it, before slipping back behind the counter.

* * *

Ivan goes home and heads straight to his room, placing the golden coin heads up on his table.

(And this is what no one else knows: once Ivan falls asleep and dreams of G.

But he doesn't know G is called G yet - unless G stands for ghost, which is just a serious _lack_ of creativity. G stands across him, in a simple white shirt and washed-out jeans, not quite meeting his eyes no matter how much Ivan tries.

"You shouldn't do that," not-yet-G suddenly says, "we'll know each other too well."

"What?" says Ivan, feeling very justifiably confused.

"For one, you'll bind yourself to me," explains not-yet-G, "but you're still alive, so you're pretty much dooming yourself to an early death."

"But you - Natasha-"

"She's different," not-yet-G replies, "she can see us all along. She already has one foot in the grave."

"Should I be worried?"

"No," says not-yet-G, "not at all, until we look each other in the eye. You will not know my name nor how I look, and I won't know yours - or you'll start remembering my past and my name, and trust me, that is not something you want to know."

Ivan shakes his head. "I don't understand," he says, "what do you mean by remember? How - what will I call you if I can't know your name?"

"Memories are fluid," replies not-yet-G. "They are like air, and the physical body is porous."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It is," says not-yet-G, "you'll mix up pieces of your soul. Think about when people give you nicknames, and you become a different man to another person who calls you a different name."

Ivan thinks about this. "You," he finally says, "you haven't told me what I should call you."

"Call me G, I supposed," he replies, "it's only fitting.")

When he wakes up, the coin is flipped over, lying innocuously on the table. Ivan tosses it in the drawer, where it will later disappear and be retrieved by G, and memories of the coin will fade from Ivan's mind as naturally as the laws of the world will it to be.

 

 

 

2.

Natasha is sullen as much as Ira is good-natured, and this means Natasha draws a _very specific_ type of friends.

"Hello, Mister," says Elise, sweet and shy and very much polite, at the same moment when May chirps, "Good afternoon, Mister!"

"I'm her brother, not her father," says Ivan.

Ira elbows him when she squeezes forward. "Oh, Natasha didn't tell me she's bringing friends over!" She claps her hands. "Pap and Mama are not home these few days, so do tell me if any of you need anything."

"Thank you, but we will be fine," May replies, in that Asian way that conveniently shuts down all further conversation _and_ friendly offers of help, while still remaining _amazingly_ courteous. She stands politely with her hands folded infront of her lap, smiling between Ira, Ivan, and Elise.

Natasha pops out from her room. "Oh, you're here." She squeezes between Ivan and Ira to grab onto Elise's arm. "Come on."

Ira and Ivan moves away as the girls scamper away. "So," Ira begins, pulling the door shut, "should I be worried?"

"About what?"

"I don't know," exclaims Ira, "you are _the_ gay brother."

"And you're _the_ straight sister," Ivan retorts, "come on, if she is, she's not one for unconventional relationships. You know how possessive she can be. Remember Otto?"

Otto is a small teddy bear that their grandmother bought for Natasha when she is a kid. She loves it so much she ties it around her wrist with a ribbon and scribbles her name in Sharpie all over it, refusing to part with it even in the shower. Otto, eventually, meets a tragic end being accidentally dropped into beef stew, never salvaged in time because the soup is too hot to dip a hand in and Natasha refuses to let anyone else touch Otto, much less fish him out for her.

Ira cringes at the recollection; Ivan takes pity on her. "You know, I'm pretty sure the Asian girl is _mostly_ straight," he reassures, "so at most Natasha and the other girl will have a normal, two-people lesbian relationship."

"Oh thank god," says Ira, "two sex talk per sibling is enough for me; I'm not prepared for a third one."

"The sex talk, the sexuality talk, and now the sexual partners talk," Ivan jokes, "you're now better qualified than most of the teachers in my high school to conduct a sexual education class."

"My school only name-dropped the idea of bisexuality," Ira agrees mournfully, "do you know how much research I have to do in order to give The Talk to Natasha?"

Ivan nods patiently. "Yes, I was there." Ira even borrowed _library books._ "I helped you prepare the slides."

"Then you should know how much I care for her," Ira continues, "I don't want her to get hurt or do things she doesn't want to because she's confused."

"You ought to have faith in her - she's strong." He pauses. "And I think her ghostly friends won't let off anyone who dares hurt her."

Ira snorts. "I know, but." She hesitates. "You understand, don't you? I can't help but be concerned."

"Yeah," says Ivan, "yeah, I do."

* * *

Sometimes, Ivan falls asleep to the sound of children's songs blaring from the family living next door.

(Here's another dream: G stands across him staring down at a cliff. 

Up till then, Ivan recognise G through recognising his figure - put G among a group of people with a similar hairstyle in a cramped group photo, and Ivan will never be able to tell them apart. It is a good thing that G only appears to Ivan alone in the dreams then, as Ivan can read the lines of his back and the impatient, but surprisingly braced way that G stands and Ivan's brain will make all the connections for him.

"What are you looking at?" Ivan asks, joining G's side.

G shrugs. "Have you ever thought about flying?"

"Wha-"

"This isn't a memory," G quickly assuages, "it's pure imagination. Have you ever thought about how flying will be like?"

"I - I can't say I did."

"Me neither." G stares down at the crashing of the waves against jutted rocks, worrying his lips. "Do you want to try?"

"Try flying?" Ivan echoes incredulously. "How do I do that?"

"Just try to imagine what flying will be like, and do it," explains G, "it's a dream: anything's possible."

"That sounds like a bad idea," Ivan replies. But it's a dream anyway, he reasons, and if he dies, he'll just wake up.

He slips off his sneakers - the rocks of the cliff feels cool and slightly damp under his feet, just as expected. He takes a deep breath, and spreads his arms out beside him. "I trust you," Ivan reminds, a hint of teasing threat in his voice, and G snorts just as Ivan throws himself off the cliff.

He closes his eyes: the wind whips past his face and buoys his torso, and somehow, _somehow,_ Ivan is _diving_ into a sea of air.

 _Wow,_  he thinks, and it is only when G yells, "Fucking right!" from somewhere above him that Ivan realises that he has spoken aloud. Ivan tugs in his knees and kicks, _swimming_ upwards towards the top of the cliff.

"Is this how you are twisting the physics of this world?" G calls, also leaping off the cliff. "Shit, this feels amazing, but what if I do _this -_ " Ivan suddenly feels a lot lighter, " - and reduce the gravitational force?"

There is always this sense of bewilderment and numbness, right before sharp flashes of ecstasy, fluffy and unfiltered, bright and eye-catching like the reflection of glaring sunlight against the glass of office towers in the hottest day of summer. "I feel like I'm _bouncing!"_

"Try flying like a bird!" Ivan twists, flapping his arms as though it can propel him backwards. A few ridiculous moments of embarrassed flailing, and Ivan is actually moving back _mid-air_  - Ivan leans back and does a flip.

"Did you see that?" Ivan yells, diving again, but this time with arms outstretched so he _glides_ through the air. When he is about to hit the ocean's surface, he tilts the angle of his arms and flaps - he _soars._ "This is, this -"

"This is magically incredible!" Gilbert shrieks delightfully, looping through the air and swooping right under Ivan. "Your brain is a fucking genius!")

He awakes from his doze with a sudden start. Blinking, disoriented, confused and trying to figure out why, when he groggily picks out several words from the noise - the culprit of which woke him from his dream.

And it is in this half-dream, half-living state, a soul caught between reality and the unreality, that the boundaries of the world are blurred and shadows leak through the edges, and Ivan tenses as his brain slowly wakes and makes sense of the words he hears.

There is the whirring of the electricity (the radiator, since it is starting to get _too_ cold), the clanking of spoons in the kitchen, and then the white noise from the city around them, from the lives and happenings of the tens of twenties of thirties of ambiguity of people living around him in the same apartment building, and Ivan - Ivan closes his eyes and forces himself to relax.

He has thought he hears someone calling his name, but when he listens harder, he realises it's only the meows of the neighbourhood strays. 

* * *

At the park, Ivan buys an ice cream for himself, and sits on the bench, dropping a few sweets into the gaps between the bench's wooden planks.

He watches owners play with their dogs, watches family scrolling down the pavement; watches couples being disgustingly lovey-dovey at the foot of the trees, and averts his eyes. He lets his head lolls back, closing his eyes and feeling the cold breeze on his cheeks. After an indefinite amount of time, an old lady steps by to sit on the park bench beside him, and Ivan straightens up to watch her feed the pigeons.

Then, after even the old lady has left, Ivan stands up, brushes his pants, and crouches beside the bench to pick up the sweets.

The wrappers are unwrapped, and the sweets cracked into tiny pieces. Ivan tosses the bigger pieces into his mouth and throws the rest of it away.

"Do you like it?" he wonders aloud. A leaf falls onto Ivan's left shoulder. "Yeah, I supposed you do."

A dog barks in the distance. Ivan buys a bouquet of flower on the way back home, and sticks it in an unused jug to display on the dining table in the kitchen.

* * *

Mama comes back in a fluster with a baby in her arms and Aunt Tanya on her tails.

"Oh sweethearts," says Mama, "your Aunt Tanya's suffering from some plumbing problem, and I thought it is not good for a baby to live in wet environments - her lungs will grow mould! Since your Pap is not around, I thought we have the extra space to put them up for a few days."

That is not at all a good bargain, nor does it make much sense: Pap is a low-maintenance man who takes up minimal space; Aunt Tanya has _a baby._ Babies are not low-maintenance. They are replacing a single person with one and a half person that requires _more_ care and space. "I mean, you've already done it," Natasha very wisely points out. Ira elbows her.

"Yes, I know, it's sudden," Mama concedes, "but you understand, circumstances don't make for much dallying."

"Of course," Ivan agrees dryly, "I mean, couldn't you give us a call so that we can, you know, prepare the house for her?"

It's more of them mentally preparing themselves and making the necessary arrangement to steer clear of a crying infant and a nosy Aunt Tanya, but, well, _details._ Mama shakes her head. "Oh sweet child, don't worry, I've made some plans: Aunt Tanya will sleep in my room, and we will put the cot in the living room! That'll do, won't it?"

The baby starts sniffling. Aunt Tanya, surprisingly quiet, hushes her baby. Ira smoothly steps in. "Of course it is no problem, Mama," she says, "but we are all quite busy for the following few days..." She trails off, waiting for the implications to sink in.

"Oh, oh, it's fine, your Aunt Tanya and I will handle our things. We will not get into the ways of you youngsters." Mama flaps her hands. "Now, I know I have a cot in the storage somewhere..."

"I'll help!" Natasha chirps, rushing off to the master bedroom to check the storage boxes. Mama follows along with a despondent sigh. Ira throws Ivan _looks_. 

Ivan sighs. "I'll go help them," he says, "if you'll excuse me."

Aunt Tanya is too occupied with the baby to say anything but give a vague nod. Ivan quickly slips away, leaving Ira to deal with getting them settled down.

* * *

The thing about Aunt Tanya, is that Ivan doesn't exactly _hate_ her. It's - it's complicated, to put it simply. She is.. she is not very _normal,_ and she doesn't even _try_ to have a life: unlike Natasha, who tries and has friends and all, Aunt Tanya _segregates_ herself. But for people that she does know (aka, _Ivan's_ family), she can't keep her stupid nose out of their business, and that eventually amounts into a lot of frustration that permeates onto other characteristics of her, gradually evolving into a well-rounded overall dislike that has Ivan finding faults with _everything_ she does.

Sometimes, Ivan truly wishes he can toss aside his family obligations and do whatever he wants and just _leave._

"I do think my annoyance is justified," Ivan complains, just as Baby Sonya (he asked, eventually) starts wailing aloud as the neighbours blast their daily playlist of children's songs. Apparently, Baby Sonya is still too young too appreciate the songs. "They are so loud."

"Then again," he continues, digging through his cupboard for the old top that he had that may _just_ appease the baby, "if the house is completely quiet, it's too empty. I'm too used to sharing space, I suppose."

His hands come into contact with something soft but compact, and Ivan retracts his hand to find himself holding a shimmery blue ball filled with glitter. "I don't remember having this; did you steal this for the baby?" He holds it up to the light. "You shouldn't do that - you are making a minimum wage worker's life very hard. Although, you can also magically remove its existence from the records, can't you? Mess up the ink and all."

He pushes himself to his feet, waving the ball as he approaches the cot. Aunt Tanya huddles over Baby Sonya, cooing desperately. "She will not stop crying," she admits despairingly,

Ivan shrugs and crouches over the cot. "Hey, "by," he begins, "do you like this?" He shakes the ball in Baby Sonya's face. "Look at it, all shimmery and shiny! Don't you like it?"

He lowers the ball gently between the baby's hands. Baby Sonya grab at it, turning it clumsily in her hands, and looking utterly enthralled by it. Ivan straightens up. "That'll entertain her for, uh, the next fifteen minutes, hopefully," he estimates.

" _Spasiba,_ Vanya -" Aunt Tanya cuts herself off, pointing fearfully above Ivan's shoulder. "What is that following you?"

"That's a friend, Aunt Tanya," Ivan answers tiredly.

"A friend? A _friend?!"_ Aunt Tanya's voice escalates into screeches. "You have something _dark_ haunting you, Vanya, that is not a _friend."_

"G is fine, I know him -"

"G? Do you know its name?" She gasps. "Does _it_ know your name? Oh no, no, darling, that can _not_ happen, you are going to curse yourself! You -" She rests the back of her hand on her brow, falling backwards onto the couch. "Oh, I can't believe this."

"Please don't faint," says Ivan.

"Stop being so dramatic," Natasha interrupts, apparently upon having overheard the commotion. She pushes Ivan back with a hand. "Creepy as he is, he has never harmed Vanya."

"But - it -"

"Aunt Tanya!" Ivan raises his voice. "The worse of the situation has already passed; Natasha kept me on track. I - I." He hesitates. "I'm _close_ to G."

"I don't understand."

"A lot of things happen," admits Ivan. "I went to check out - I actively seek to _find out_ who G is. I talked to his brother and I. I know everything."

"But Vanya," Aunt Tanya presses, "why would you do this to yourself? Bind your soul to a - a creature like that?"

Ivan purses his lips. He glances up at the ceiling, and inhales deeply. Then he looks back down and stares Aunt Tanya straight in the eye. "Because I like him," he confesses.

 

 

 

3.

"Won't it be nice," says Ivan, "if you are my guardian angel? And that is why you haunt this house. You're protecting my family."

"I am protecting your family," G agrees, "but I am nothing fancy like an _angel._ Don't romanticise me."

"I'm not - I'm just wondering what you are."

"A ghost; a spirit." He shakes his head. "Something like that.

"But spirits stay because they are a shade of memory of a place," Ivan argues. "You are not bound to this home, or, or city. You're free to roam."

G doesn't answer him for a long while. "Ivan," he says, finally, "I am bound the moment I die in this city, and I am bound when I choose to follow you."

* * *

A few months or even a few years ago, Ivan wakes up groggy and drained, as though something heavy is weighing down on his lungs and the very air he is breathing.

 _Am I sick,_ he thinks, _a fever?_ and pushes himself up, stumbling on his own feet as he trudges out of the room.

The world blends together, haze and dazed, and Ivan is barely aware of himself when he scrambles through the pills in the kitchen cabinet for pills. He finds the bottle, and pops it open, pouring the capsules out into his palm.

He isn't really thinking - isn't really _capable_ of it, when he makes to cup his palm of capsules into his mouth. Then, then what passes is more blurred images, but he remembers Natasha yelling and slapping his arm away, before reaching out to lift - life _something_ away from his eyes.

"Get away from my brother," Natasha snarls, and in that split moment, Ivan hears a shrill scream somewhere above him, and behind Natasha, Ivan thinks he sees a figure, a man, wide-eyed and angry and yet anxious all at once, staring down at him. "Hurry, help me -"

"G?" Ivan mutters, and passes out just as the memory floods his brain.

* * *

The memory he sees is this: staring down from the ceiling, feeling furious as an indistinct figure bends down over Ivan's sleeping form, covering both his eyes with its palms. He sees G's figure waking Natasha by twisting her dream, scaring her awake and chasing her out of the room by scratching frantically at the wallpapers. He sees Natasha dashes out, processing what she is seeing and panicking -

And then Ivan is dipping further back, colours and shadows blending together into a swirly gelatinous mixture; and then the colours start to form concrete forms, gaining definition until Ivan is staring at another image.

He is - he is not quite himself. He never feels so tired and yet so reckless at the same time, the need to do something, _anything,_ to make sense of the world. _I need to go home,_ Ivan thinks, and then, _what home,_ and realises these are not his thoughts.

He walks down the dimly lit streets of some non-discrete suburban landscape, with big houses and spacey lawns that Ivan himself has never lived in before, the setting sun painting everything with a tinge of orange.

Then there is a sudden whiz, too fast for him to react completely, and there is a sharp pain in the back of his head. He reaches a hand back to touch his hair. It comes away glistening with something dark and red.

"Oh my God! Are you alright?" a lady (Mrs Peters, the memory supplies, you like Mrs Peters) shouts from across the street, running across her lawn and into the street, her two teenage daughters hurrying close behind. "I can't believe those kids - how can they do this to you?"

"My parents are German," he - or rather, whoever Ivan is supposed to be - replies helplessly. "It makes sense that they are angry."

"Don't say that," says the younger daughter, "you're a G.I."

Gilbert snorts, ignoring the throbbing pain. "I -" he begins self-deprecatingly, when someone else yells, "Gilbert Beilsch-"

There is a sharp pain across his cheeks, and Ivan blinks awake, drowsy and confused and staring straight up at Ira's worried face.

"Oh thank god," Ira mutters, cradling his cheeks, "we thought we're going to lose you."

"But nothing happened, did it?" Ivan warily eyes the pills scattered on the floor. "What's going on?"

Natasha suddenly grabs his shoulders and shakes him hard. "Did you see anything?"

"What?"

"Memories," explains Natasha frantically. "If you see anything, forget it now. Try as hard as you can to forget it. His face, his name - _especially_ his name, Vanya, tell me you don't know it."

"I don't - I think -" Everything that has just happened begins reordering itself. "I think I saw something."

"Forget it," Natasha pleads.

"I'll try," says Ivan, unconvincingly.

* * *

Ivan does try to forget G. But when the memory slips to the edge of his consciousness, he panics and thinks, _fuck, I don't_ want _to forget you,_ and forces himself to recall every bit and detail of it all again. He writes it on a piece of paper ( _Gilbert Beilsch--, German roots, GI_ _, suburbia)_ and takes a photo of it on his phone, emailing it to himself and then saving it on Drive and Office and as Facebook drafts, simply because he doesn't want to risk G himself intervening and erasing all traces of what Ivan knows.

"Let me have this," Ivan says, and G answers him with the sound of something slipping from the cupboards. "I want to do this." He swallows. "I won't take it too far." _And what is too far,_ he thinks hysterically, _what do I know of all these anyway?_ "Trust me. Please."

And perhaps that is what that does it; the tension in the air that he hasn't even been aware of suddenly fizzles out. Ivan exhales, staring down at the piece of note paper on his desk. "Thank you," he says.

* * *

"I have a brother," says G - or Gilbert, can he call him Gilbert now? - in a dream.

"Why are you not looking at me?" demands Ivan. "I know now; I don't mind being bound to you."

"Oh Ivan," says Gilbert, "there is so much you _don't_ know."

* * *

"There is a signpost on the lawn, that says something like, _Beware of dog slobber,_ or something."

"That's not very specific," says Yao, "I can't help you with anything as vague as that." He folds his arms. "What about last names? This guy - do you have a first or last name that you can follow up?"

"I only know that heserved as a GI when anti-German sentiments are strong."

"That's pretty much World War 2; anti-German sentiments died off pretty quick."

"I do have half a surname to go by," Ivan adds, " _Beilsch_ something. He has a brother."

"Huh." Yao scans the racks nearby. "You think he's still alive?"

"I hope so." Yao sucks in a sharp breath, grabbing a humongous phone book off the shelves and brandishing it triumphantly. "Oh. Yes."

"I know no one uses phone books these days, but you can try. The library stocks more - older ones, if you need them." Yao stretches, his joints cracking. "Oof. I'm off now then. And I thought I can end my shift early today."

"I'm sorry," says Ivan, not sounding very apologetic at all.

Yao snorts. "Have fun scanning the names for, what, the guy your grandfather befriended? You know, I never understand why you white people bothered looking up these people. Let the past be - it's already over anyway."

"That's ironic, coming from you, the _history_ major."

"I study them; this, it's personal." Yao waves goodbye as he slips out of the bookshop. Ivan waves him off too, before settling down behind the counter to scan through the names. 

Ivan makes it through several chapters (not true; he's only midway through the third one), marking down significant names on a notepad, pausing only to grab snacks or to ring up some books. The names on the list are frightfully long, and Ivan is already starting to feel a warning creak in his neck and shoulders - in short, he is going nowhere. He puts a pen between the pages and puts it back onto the table with a heavy sigh. Some bumbling young man stumbles over to the counter with a stack of hardcover children's book, and a few parenting self-help book, and Ivan's head immediately slots him under Ivan's mental "New Parent column".

"Phew," says the man, dumping the book messily on the counter. Some of the books slide right off the stack and knocks Ivan's phone book right off. "Shit I'm sorry," the man blabbers just as Ivan cusses. "I uh, sorry."

"It's fine," Ivan bites scathingly as he picks up the book. It has landed open but the pages are messed up, the pen rolling away towards the wall. Ivan attempts to flatten the pages with his palm, when he notices a significant but short crease underlining one of the names:

_Ludwig Schmidt_

And somehow, everything suddenly clicks: Ivan knows this is the one, from a strange niggling in his chest that cannot be explained, the same way that only people who decided to quit their stable jobs and chase after whatever they want to do to pursue their _calling_ , or when a mother glances down at her newborn and realises, _this is it, this is mine;_ a strange epiphanic moment that can never be recreated or broken down unless a person experiences it on their own.

"Um, hey?" Ivan startles, realising how stupid he must appear, staring down dumbstruck at an open phone book. Ivan clears his throat, dog-earring the page before setting it aside to scan the man's books.

* * *

Tracking down Ludwig Schmidt requires a few trips to the library, scourging through older phone books and tracing the changes. Somewhere, the name Ludwig Schmidt moved, and another, Ludwig Schmidt becomes Ludwig Beilschmidt, and before, it was Hans Beilschmidt, who (Ivan assumes) is likely the father.

He calls; Ludwig picks up. Ivan pretends to be a student doing research on non-American GIs, and Ludwig agrees to meet.

Off Ivan goes to track Ludwig down then. As it is, Ludwig is only living a state away, and Ivan doesn't hesitate to convince Ira to let him use their family car.

"One day," says Ira, "I am buying my own car."

"You hate carparks," Ivan points out, "I remember you walked a full two miles and sat through peak hour public transport just to avoid carpooling with us."

"Parking is a tedious and traumatising nightmare in big cities," Ira retorts simply. Ivan snickers.

Ludwig arranges to meet at a family diner, nearest to the local mall. When Ivan pulls into park, however, the diner appears almost empty.

Ludwig in his late eighties, with a sternness in the turn of his mouth but laugh lines tracing the edges of his eyes. He smiles politely when Ivan makes eye contact with him. "Hello, Ivan -?"

"Yes. Pleasure to meet you, Prof. Schmidt." They shake hands firmly; Ludwig nods approvingly as Ivan sits across him. "Sir, I hope you don't mind if I skip the small talk."

"Not at all: I never liked small talk."

"Alright." Ivan flips open his notepad. "So, I found out that your parents migrated to the States after the first war?"

"Yes, sometime during the mid-twenties. Germany is poor then." Ludwig calmly folds his hands together. "I was too young to remember anything, but my brother tells me stories."

"Alright." Ivan scribbles the information down. "Did both of you enlist?"

"My brother was drafted; I volunteered in the last few months. Didn't saw much action before I was dismissed." Ludwig glances out of the window. "But what I saw, I - well, I am glad that is all I saw.

"Then I went back to college, did well in academia, and now I'm here." Ludwig smiles. "And life works itself out."

Ivan nods. "But you are second-generation Germans. Isn't that - do people ever question your loyalty?"

"Oh, all the time. The worse of it is during the war, and the period right after, when everything Hitler did to the Jews comes to light. But it - it works out."

"I don't think it did, sir, if you don't mind me saying this." Ivan clears his throat. "After all, your brother died."

Ludwig straightens up. "What about my brother?"

"He died, didn't he, because of who he is."

"If you're suggesting he died because the neighbours don't like that he is German," Ludwig begins, "then you are wrong. He died from a car crash while driving to pick up some official documents."

"Is that all it is?"

"Yes."

"But I saw Gilbert getting attacked by the neighbours," Ivan continues, "and Mrs Peters and her daughters talked to him about it."

Ludwig's lips are flattened into a thin, straight line. "I think you're delusional."

"Sir, I do not mean to offend -"

"Then don't."

"-but there is a reason I know these things, and _you_ know what I am saying is true." Ivan places his notepad gingerly down. "I just want to know why and who he is."

Ludwig clenches and unclenches his fists. Then he leans back, and sighs deeply. "I think," he says, "it's best if I show you something."

* * *

The grave is bare but clean; it is buried next to Elsa Beilschmidt (1901 - 1974) and Hans Beilschmidt (1894 - 1975), and while the latter two has a bouquet of flowers, Gilbert's grave (1922 - 1947, god, his parents outlived him by more than a full _decade_ ) is blooming with tiny wild flowers at its edges. 

"He died of a car accident," says Ludwig, "but while he is alive, he is... not liked by the neighbourhood. There is the German thing, yes, but Gilbert had it especially bad because he is -" He pauses, shifting his weight. "Well, they used to call him queer, in all senses of the word."

Ivan bows his head. Ludwig continues, "Gilbert is albino, and that is already something they dislike him for. Then his personality is also loud, and boisterous, and they don't like that. I don't understand why, but they don't. And then, the rumours that he may not be... straight, that is - the neighbours strongly dislike him.

"There are nice people like Mrs Peters, of course, but they are the minorities. He had a hard life." Ludwig glances at the clouds. "But our family sticks together with him."

Ivan crouches down, tracing the letters of Gilbert's name. "Do you think he's happier now, then?" he asks. "You're successful, and from what I see from their graves, your parents are very loving."

"I am atheist," says Ludwig.

"Well, I am never particularly religious too," Ivan replies. He stands back up, brushing his pants. Then, on a whim, he reaches into his pocket and grasps; there it is, Gilbert has left them a yellowing, folded piece of paper. "Here, this is for you."

Ludwig picks it up cautiously. Then, slowly, he unfolds it, and his hands tremble as he takes in the sight. "Where do you get this?" he manages.

"I found it." And then Ivan's damn curiosity gets the better of it, because he asks, "What is it?"

"You didn't look at it?"

"No, I am only told to pass it to you," and totally contradicts himself, wow smart idea, Ivan. Luckily, Ludwig doesn’t seem to notice; he lowers the paper so that Ivan can see it. And _oh,_ it is an old photograph of the brothers, an arm thrown easily across each other's shoulders as they stand in front of their house, Hans and Elsa Beilschmidt sitting in the lawn chatting with the neighbours. There is a sprawling but precise scrawl at the bottom, _194X, Home._

"I don't know what to say." Ludwig blinks rapidly. "I can't believe he kept it. This is the photo he brought with him to war; we thought he lost it then."

"He didn't - although he may have lost it during the car crash."

"He kept it," Ludwig repeats wondrously. "And all these years I thought -"

"You're family," says Ivan, "he misses you."

"And I miss him too," Ludwig says, "but he's dead now."

"Even if he's still around?"

"Especially so," replies Ludwig, "that way, I can't even find closure."

* * *

"I know who you are now," says Ivan, once, in a dream, "why won't you look at me?"

"Vanya," Gilbert pleads, "what is the point of chaining yourself further to a dead man?"

* * *

After - after all these, talking to his sisters feel like a refreshing wake-up call. Ira sits him down and Natasha, very calmly, asks, "Are you bewitched?"

"No, I don't think so." He picks at his nails. "I think Gilbert is even trying to deter me."

"Then why do you still do this?" Ira presses. "I know that you've let him follow you around since you're _fourteen,_ and that you two are some sort of friends, but you - you never tell us anything. We don't understand."

Ivan shrugs. "I think I simply felt sentimental," he offers. "Perhaps curious too."

"Melancholic?" Ira adds.

" _Attached,"_  Natasha snarls, "attached to the _past_ like some fool who thinks it's possible to grow close to a _ghost._ "

"Natasha!"

"Don't blame her, I know it's stupid." He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's just - it's almost been five years, and I know _everything_ about him except who he is. I know what he likes and what he doesn't, I know how he prefers to do his coffee and that he always puts on his left sock first.

"I know he scratches his hair when he is confused or frustrated, and I know how he reacts to surprises or awkward silences or comically stupid situations - I even know which side of the bed he prefers to sleep on! I _understand_ exactly whohe _is_ , yet at the same time, I will never _know_ who _is_ he, and that is because he is dead and I am not."

"But you can't know that - you'll chain your souls together," Natasha argues. "Do you know what that means? You'll be permanently and constantly haunted by him."

Ivan lets out a frustrated exhale. "And how is it any different from what is going on now?"

"You like his company," Ira realises, "you like  _him."_

Ivan refuses to answer that. Ira cups both hands around his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. "Oh Vanya," and her voice is that fragile but unique tone, the blend of sympathy and assurance and mothering all in once, commonly deployed when talking to crying kids or scared animals.

Ivan hates that voice. "Don't do that."

" _You_ don't do that," Natasha snaps furiously, "being chained is not just about him tagging along everywhere. Him in your dreams is a rational spirit that still maintains his personality from when he is alive. Him when you are  _awake_ is nothing but a ball of energy that is made up of emotions and memories. He _can't_ \- he physically _cannot_ manage complex thoughts. He's going to be impulsive and act purely on one idea at a time, and nothing can distract him. He's going to be _irrational,_ because he can't control it."

"I don't know," Ivan snarks, "I wonder who it is that saved me and woke you up during the incident a few weeks back."

"And do you know why you are targeted?" Natasha rebuts. "It is because he is always around you! You become more vulnerable. And - and it is _precisely_ because he is so angry and eager to save you that he _forgets_ he cannot meet your eyes, and now see what happened!"

"Then what about you? He says people like you already have one foot in the grave!"

"Is this true?" Ira interjects, wide-eyed with horror. "Natasha, why didn't you tell us?"

"I may have one foot in, but I also have a foot out," Natasha defends. "If you continue like this, Vanya, you will be standing with _both feet in the grave,_ and you're only waiting to topple over and the lid to swing shut." She jabs a finger in his chest. "This is what it means to be fucking _chained,_ Vanya: you are going to die a lot younger, and there is no way to get around this."

"Gilbert died when he was twenty-five," Ivan states, feeling a strange sense of detachment overcoming him, "Prof. Schmidt lived to his late eighties, but he is constantly haunted by the past, to the extent that he has to move across states - and even that is not enough, he has to change his last name, and he still can't find closure." He shakes his head. "I don't want to live like that."

The statement settles and resonates, Ivan heaving after his declaration. Then, quietly, tiredly, Ira says, "You don't need to live like the people in novels to be happy, Vanya."

"I know that," says Ivan, "but I also know that I can't be happy if I don't do this for myself. It's been five years."

"It's your decision," Ira concedes, and that is the last straw, the sense of finality sinking in at last. "We're family; we'll stick by whatever you choose to do. Just - just consider us too when you make your decisions."

Ivan smiles. Then, reaching out to hold on to both Ira's and Natasha's hands, he says, "I did."

 

 

 

4.

Ivan receives an email from Ludwig, who mentions an old friend's hospital is currently short on staff and _I heard your sister has recently graduated with a nursing degree, would she like to pick up the chance?_

Ivan thinks, _it's time Ira gets her own space,_ and he thinks, _it's time Ira gets her own life,_ and he replies that he'll check with her. He shuts down his notebook, inhaling deeply as he mentally prepares himself. "Gilbert."

He waits. Gilbert doesn't react. Ivan stands up, and walks to the corner, where it is always the darkest part of any room, and reaches a hand out. "Gilbert," he repeats.

Slowly, he thinks he feels the brush of a vague chill against his palms, and Ivan curls his fingers, grabbing on as much as he can when it is pretty much grasping at air. "I do like you a lot, Gilbert," he confesses.

If he strains his ears, he thinks he can hear the whispers of the wind, the tears shed for a life unlived and a human condition never experienced, and Ivan swallows. "Let me do this."

He clenches his fists, turning his wrists around. When he glances down, there is a single piece of chocolate, carved into the shape of a deformed heart, and Ivan laughs so hard that tears leak out the edges of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this](http://www.newyorker.com/cartoons/a20858), thought of this reality show with people going to actual haunted places, got inspired, and decided to write a fic about dating an immaterial, invisible spirit/ghost/angel/etc.


End file.
